I could think of only one thing to say under these circumstances.
“Let’s have coffee.”
I led them to the morada. Since I’d been outside in the fresh air, once in the morada I became aware of stove fuel odor, coffee, and vomit.
Phaedra lay inside the bench.
Jolie and Nguyen studied a fanged bag of blood and the vomit spot on the floor.
Jolie said, “At least the girl tried to eat.”
She knelt and spread the sleeping bag from Phaedra’s face. “Jeez, Felix, you chicken hawk, you’re picking them kinda young, aren’t you?”
“She picked me.” I gave my story, starting with the hallucinations.
Nguyen looked around the room. “Where is the psychotronic diviner?”
I didn’t want to answer. I’d screwed up enough with Phaedra.
“Well?” The edge in Nguyen’s voice said he was tired of waiting.
“The zombies have it.”
“How did that…”
Jolie cut him off. “We’ll go over that later. Right now let’s see what we can do about the girl.”
Tendrils betraying Nguyen’s annoyance stuck out from his aura. He wanted me to think of him as the vampire in charge, but it was obvious Jolie made the decisions. He sat on his heels and picked over Phaedra’s camping gear.
I explained Phaedra’s diagnosis with Huntington’s. My guess was that her brain disease had made her a conduit for psychic consciousness. I added that she had no chance of living past thirty, and that she wanted me to turn her into a vampire.
“And you first said no?” Jolie asked.
“I did.”
Jolie stroked Phaedra’s forehead in a gentle and surprisingly maternal gesture. “Yet here she is.” Jolie took Phaedra’s right hand and massaged the web of flesh between thumb and forefinger. Phaedra’s aura gave a tiny pulse.
I didn’t need Jolie digging into the guilt I felt about Phaedra. We had enough stockpiled over Carmen.
I primed the stove and lit the burner. “How’s she doing?” I measured coffee into the percolator basket, filled the pot with water, and set it on the stove. “I don’t have much experience at turning.”
“Doesn’t take much practice. But she’s doing well. Better than most.” Jolie tucked Phaedra’s hand back into the sleeping bag and pulled the zipper to her chin. “Vampires this young can be exceptionally powerful.”
“How so?”
“The exuberance of youth. Their incredible powers of recuperation. They’re more adventurous and less inhibited.”
“That’s Phaedra to a T, but I don’t think that’s a good thing.”
“She’ll adjust. We all do.”
“I mean I don’t think it’s good she’s a vampire.”
“Don’t worry. The Araneum will take care of her.”
The coffee perked. I offered Jolie and Nguyen their choice from the bags of blood. She fanged open an O-negative.
“I only have two cups.”
“You and I can share.” The comment was directed at me but meant for Nguyen.
We split the bag between two cups that I filled with coffee. He took the second cup and flipped a resentful gaze at her.
Jolie placed her backpack on the floor and sat on the adobe bricks of the bench. She got close and examined my face.
“You look like you’ve been on the wrong end of an ass kicking.”
I told them about Dr. Hennison and the zombies. They listened pensively, their auras contracting and expanding like bellows. I emphasized a warning about the zombie collective consciousness.
“What’s the next step?” Nguyen asked.
“We destroy them as soon as possible,” I said. “Dr. Hennison’s got bad wounds. His priority is survival. The zombies are good at chasing, they’re not so good at being chased. Now that I know the layout of their lair and their capabilities, we should have no problem wiping them out.”
“Who’s minding the girl?” Jolie asked.
“Figured you were,” Nguyen said.
Jolie shook her head. “Guess again, hot stuff. You stay here.”
“Bullshit to that. I’m no babysitter.”
“Do what I tell you.”
Nguyen stood and glared.
Jolie remained on the bench. “Either sit back down or I’ll kick your ass from here to Denver.”
Nguyen shot a puzzled, embarrassed look like I was going to come to his rescue. Why did he bother? If a boulder fell on him this instant, I’d cheer for the rock.
Nguyen didn’t sit. He flicked his hand in a rude wave and turned his back to us. Mr. Bad Ass bloodsucker in his black leathers stood by the door and pouted.
Jolie asked, “What’s next?”
“We’ll need weapons. A machine gun. A flamethrower.”
A tendril lashed from the top of Jolie’s aura. “No problem. I’ll go to the nearest Home Depot and get a dozen of each. Seriously, where do you plan to get them?”
I pulled my cell phone from a coat pocket. “Not from where, but from who.”
“From who, then?”
“From the last guy who wants to hear from me.”
“That’s a long list,” Jolie replied. “Be more specific.”
“Sal Cavagnolo.”
I gave Jolie the rundown on Cavagnolo. He’d supply me with guns.
“Even a flamethrower?” Jolie asked.
“If he has one, I’ll take it. Otherwise, I’ll improvise something.”
“Let’s go.” On her way out the door, she slapped Nguyen on the arm. “Don’t lose the kid.”
We trotted down the slope to my Toyota. Two big adventure-touring motorcycles stood beside my 4Runner. Jolie explained that the BMW was hers, the Buell Ulysses was Nguyen’s. She put on a full-face helmet.
I drove to Cavagnolo’s house. Jolie followed on her bike.
On the way to Cavagnolo’s I thought about the plan to get Hennison. I was glad Jolie was with me. There wasn’t a better brawler anywhere. Plus, her loyalties were on my side.
Nguyen? If he had to fight, would he back off at a critical time and let the zombies do his dirty work?
And providing we did return safely, what about Phaedra?
I paused at the gravel turnoff to Cavagnolo’s property. Jolie halted. In my rearview mirror all I could see was her riderless BMW motorcycle proceeding upright like an invisible ghost was at the controls.
Cavagnolo’s house was an older ranch style covered in plain beige stucco. The original structure was a simple rectangle and over the years additions had been grafted to the sides so that the house sprawled across the width of his lot. Lush rosebushes bordered a small, yellowed lawn.
I followed the gravel road to a driveway on the east side of his home. A white Porsche Cayenne was parked in front of a garage at the end of the driveway.
Jolie rode her BMW off the road and halted beside a thick stand of shrubs. She dismounted and disappeared into the shadows.
I hadn’t thought about Cavagnolo’s reception. Jolie was wise in anticipating trouble.
Two unseen dogs barked.
A woman appeared in the screen door of the main entrance. As I drove close, the woman opened the door and stepped into a pair of lime green gardening clogs by the front mat.
She looked mid to late thirties and wore jeans and a loose blouse-typical country working attire. She shared Cavagnolo’s Mediterranean complexion and I couldn’t decide if she was his wife or a sister.
She came straight to me, her face hostile. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Sal.”
“What friend? What do you want here?”
Cavagnolo came out the front door. “How do you know where I live?”
“Phaedra showed me.”
“Where is she?”
Cavagnolo’s wife complicated the situation. With her around, I couldn’t ask him about guns, so I pretended my visit was only about Phaedra.
If I told Cavagnolo she was with me, then he’d make a fuss about bringing her here, which I wasn’t going to do. Instead I said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, no.” His eyes softened in worry. “Is she in trouble?”
“Hope not.” I wanted to reassure Cavagnolo but couldn’t without giving away about what I knew Phaedra. “I’m not sure where she is. Might help if you tell me more about her.”